By the time she’d lugged everything back, her lesson had been well and truly learned. With arms, feeling they’d been pulled out of their sockets, and knees and shins bruised by the corners of packets and the edges of cans, determined to dance a feverish tarantella, she would not forget. In addition, she was too late for the opera’s end, but in time to learn that next week’s offering was to be Verdi’s Nabucco, featuring the Quillicos, father and son.
After brewing herself a coffee, Tenille proceeded to find a home for these errant packages, which she was now so glad to have, before setting up for a dance practise. The kitchen sported a small square of congoleum, which would suffice for steps, but she would have to buy Masonite boards if she wanted to work on sequences.
She made her bed then nestled teddy under the covers, head resting on the pillow. Montmorency had been with her since she was six, sleeping with her until Jerred had forbade him in the bed with them. Then, for almost two years he’d lain on the top shelf of her closet, neglected.
‘Not any more, little one,’ she told him, as she patted his round, fat tummy through the sheet. On to the bathroom, located to the right of the bed, the door being to the left of the dressing table; basically white with a pale green, wicker hamper. Matching towels and a pot plant would look pretty on the windowsill. The toiletries all fitted into the medicine cabinet. Good. She didn’t like clutter.
* * *
For a moment, after opening her eyes, Tenille couldn’t figure where she was. Memory flooded back as she took in the surroundings, rolling over and stretching her body luxuriously. Seeing the closet, she remembered she would be going to Devon’s later. A collage of images came together behind her eyelids and she smiled, for now content to lie there and know she only had herself to please. She turned on the radio for company and enjoyed listening to a special, featuring Lorenna McKennit, her style reminding her of Enya.
Time to get the day started. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and her feet felt for lamb’s wool slippers. Shrugging into her downy robe she crossed over to plug in the kettle. Dreamily, she ran the water for her bath, then the shrill whistle took her back to the kitchen. That first taste of coffee in the morning. All subsequent cups never held the same deliciousness. She set the mug on the bathtub ledge for sipping at her leisure. An item of news caught her ear: the conservative MP for Vancouver, Kim Campbell, was being interviewed. Her party had lost 153 seats in the last election and after being considered a possible replacement, Ms. Campbell had lost her seat, too. The interviewer was interested to know her future plans. Would she continue in politics? “She should,” Tenille thought, as she began to set up. We need more women representatives. Kim’s question was how do you get them involved? Where do you start? They ran out of time so there was no answer and then came the sports results.
The day was breezy with a drowsy warmth to the sun. No need to bundle up totally, a long wool jacket to wear over sweater and jeans would do. She slung her purse over her shoulder and made sure of the key. Stepping onto the sidewalk she turned southward this time, wending her way towards Walmer Road, noticing a Country Style Donuts on the corner with Bloor Street. Kitty corner was a big Dominion. This could even be closer than Loblaws. She remembered the trek with the bags. Turning eastward along Bloor, she admired the merchandise displayed in the store fronts. Being a fashionable area of town, they were open and when she hit Yorkville, off Avenue Road, the sidewalks were jammed with tourists. She would be lucky to find a seat if she wanted to eat lunch here. In the end, it was a charming little bistro on Davenport that came to her rescue, close to the antique stores. Sitting outside she enjoyed an iced chocolate, watching Torontonians and tourists alike, strolling by.
The exploration continued, proceeding west on the opposite side of Bloor, stopping at the Colonnade. It was here, in one of the smallest boutiques ever, she saw her papier mache balloon. The price was not right, but she fell in love with its animated passengers in the wicker basket, jolly and colorful. Her one extravagance. She’d better not make a habit of it, she’d be broke within the month.
The first thing Tenille wanted on her return was to get the balloon airborne. She had the hook, but now she came to think of it, perhaps her landlady wouldn’t approve. Better check. Knocking lightly on the living room door, it was quickly answered by Furio.
‘Hello, come in,’ he smiled at her, opening the door wider. ‘Lucky for you I was here. Everyone is in the kitchen and they’re making that much of a racket, you’d never have gotten any attention.’
‘No, I don’t want to interrupt anything,’ she protested. ‘I just need to ask your mother something,’ she explained.
Furio stood there, watching Tenille speak. He thought her so pretty - that topaz skin. He liked her luxurious hair and flashing eyes. He watched the full bloom of her mouth as she talked. Such kissable lips … and to think … she had come to live downstairs. “This could get interesting,” ran through his head.
‘Listen, no trouble. I’ll get her for you.’ He gave her another smile, as he turned back into the room. She found it creepy. Was it almost a leer? Glad to see Mrs. Sandrelli, all thoughts of her encounter with him faded.
‘I’m sorry to bother you when you have company …’ she began, but the older woman interrupted.
‘Is all right. I was coming to see you myself. You want I show you the laundry set up?’ She was wiping her hands on that ever present apron, her son still hung about. ‘Furio, you go inside now.’ She turned back to Tenille. ‘Come, we go down together,’ leading the way, she opened the door opposite Tenille’s.
‘Oh, yes … thank you, but I wanted … wanted to see you about another matter,’ she pursued hesitantly.
‘Bene, we talk after.’ Mrs. Sandrelli made everything clear. She seemed most concerned about the quantity of detergent; that and not leaving clothes sitting in the dryer. Tenille guessed these must have been serious bones of contention.
‘I’ll take care.’
They went across to the apartment where she proudly showed off her new purchase. Mrs. Sandrelli duly admired it, but Tenille suspected she was just being polite. ‘The question is, would you mind if I put it up in the bathroom?’
A look of concern crossed the woman’s face. “Oh dear, holes in the ceiling.” She didn’t want to deny her new tenant on her first day, but … ‘Let me check with my husband, okay?’ She went upstairs, Tenille waited, fearing the worst.
She returned with Furio in tow. ‘Enrico, he say is okay, so long you let Furio do the job. He will find the beam and drill the hole for the hook.’ She was nodding her head, willing agreement. ‘I leave you now. You show Furio everything.’
Left alone with the young man, Tenille experienced once again, a moment of discomfort. He seemed to do nothing but stand too close. She found it menacing. Backing away towards the bathroom she said: ‘I’d like it in this corner, please.’
By now they were both in the small room, Tenille close enough to smell his slightly musty, male odor, making her nostrils flare. She wanted to get out, but was trapped. She moved towards the window, indicating the spot. Furio went out to get a chair, freeing her to leave and let him get on with it. It didn’t take long and he was saying: ‘Come and see.’ She approached the room, but didn’t go in.
Standing in the doorway she observed that indeed it looked as good as she had hoped. Furio returned the chair to the kitchen.
‘Any chance of a beer,’ he enquired brazenly, looking her full in the eye. She wasn’t happy about this, but he had just done her a favor.
‘No, I don’t have beer, I’ve not been to the store. I’ve got juice or soft drink.’
‘Coke would be good.’
‘Seven Up?’
‘Sure.’ He proceeded to range round the room looking at all her things. She wished he wouldn’t. It was getting on her nerves. Setting the bottle and glass on the counter she said: ‘Come and sit,’ hoping to stop his inquisitiveness. He came over, but instead of taking the chair, sat o
n the counter, swinging his legs and looking very much at home.
‘You got a boyfriend?’ He ignored the glass and took a big swig from the bottle, his manner insolent and intrusive. She felt somehow threatened but, being her landlady’s son … well, hostility wasn’t her place.
‘I don’t see that as any business of yours Furio, but no I haven’t.’ A deep breath: ‘Look, I’ve got an appointment and have to get ready, do you mind?’ staring pointedly at her watch.
Laughter, loud and braying, broke from him as he threw back his head, as if he’d heard a good joke. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’ He obviously thought he had. Tenille was getting to dislike him more by the minute. She wouldn’t have him in her room again. True, he’d not really done anything, except be obnoxious.
‘Please, go now,’ she insisted. ‘Thank you for your help, I do appreciate it,’ she added graciously.
‘Well, appreciation can be shown in more ways than one,’ he said, as he jumped down in one agile bound and landed in front of her. He was just about to reach out when they heard a knock.
‘Come in,’ Tenille called, relief flooding through her. She went to open the door as Mrs. Sandrelli stepped in.
‘I wondered if you would like to join us upstairs, Tenille. It can be lonely, your first day,’ she enquired solicitously.
Furio came up to her, too close again, but all he said was: ‘Yes, we’re going to watch the game.’
‘No … no … thanks,’ she stammered, taking a step back: ‘I’m visiting a friend. I have to get ready.’
‘Very well, Cara. We leave you, but you know any time you want company, you just come on up.’ She smiled as she left.
Furio put the bottle back on the counter and followed his mother. At the door he turned, a wolfish grin on his face. ‘Also, any time you need a hand, I’m your man. Thanks for the drink.’
At last he was gone and she could be at ease. Why did there always have to be something to spoil things? Presumably he worked and evenings he’d be out with friends. Their paths shouldn’t cross.
Time to get ready. She stood and looked at her closet, like always, and waited for inspiration. Deciding what to wear was a chore. She wanted to look good for Devon, but she was such a sophisticated woman, she couldn’t hope to meet her standard. Mm..m. Casual with quality. Finally she selected black stirrup pants and a long sleeved, jeans shirt. For over top a black crocheted wool shell, short waisted, no sleeves. She laid them out on the bed then took a quick shower. When she put it all together she was satisfied. Black lace-ups with push-downs on the bottom.
The face. Discreet eye makeup, no lip gloss and no jewelry. The hair. She gathered up her silky curls and tied them back in a long-toothed, double comb, off the face, falling down like a mane. She liked the look; groomed, but not pampered.
At last, ready to call Devon, unaccountably her heart was racing as she punched in the numbers. Devon’s utterance was a bright: ‘Hello,’ but Tenille’s throat was so constricted, she had to repeat her greeting before she could find her voice, coming out almost a croak. ‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Hello me. Want I come pick you up?’
‘Please. It’s #226, McPherson.’
‘I’ll find it. See you.’
The line went dead and her heart beat returned to normal. “Crazy dork,” she rebuked herself. “How can you act ‘ Miss Cool’ if you get all flustered over just a simple hello?”
Not long and there were the chimes. She rushed out, just as Mrs. Sandrelli was opening her door.
‘It’s okay, it’s for me,’ she called out hastily. The door closed and she ran forward, all at once feeling so alive.
Devon was driving a mid-seventies Mercedes convertible; racing green, in good condition. “Must have her own mechanic to keep this serviced,” Tenille thought, impressed. Sitting beside her, low slung to the ground, she could imagine how good it would feel, out on the open road, top down. For now, she had the heater going full blast; it was toasty.
‘I have to have the heater on,’ she explained: ‘The old crate’s got so many draughts. You warm enough?’
‘Oh yes. Fine. This is wonderful,’ she enthused with innocent pleasure.
Devon lived at Yonge and St. Clair in an apartment building adjacent to the Granite Club, with underground parking. They took the elevator to the sixth floor. The high rise was only eight stories, total.
‘Make yourself at home.’ She threw her keys onto a delicately inlaid Sheridan console. Luxurious opulence surrounded them, tasteful antiques, soft furnishing in pastel shaded linens and velvets. She appeared from the kitchen, two glasses held by the stem and a bottle of Valpolicella. Tenille was impressed again as she sank down into the big, soft cushions of the chesterfield. She should have pictured her in a setting like this. Devon’s glamor filled her eyes. She was wearing matching track pants and sweater; a stylish twosome in khaki, with narrow black stripes down the outside of the legs and at the neck and cuffs. The color brought out reddy-gold highlights in her hair and made her skin look even more translucent and perfect. The vivid red lips were still intrusive, but they were such a part of her, Devon would feel naked without them. She settled herself back amongst the cushions, one leg tucked up, the other dangling. Sipping her wine she asked about the move. Tenille gradually began to relax under the wine’s salutary effect. She asked a few questions of her own, trying to keep her voice neutral. ‘This cabaret you’re getting into, how all did that start?’
‘One time I met this guitarist friend of Belen’s. He had in tow a young man, newly arrived from Barcelona. A dancer. A knockout dancer I should add. Anyway, he struck me as someone special. He was dancing with Belen, but he wanted to get out on his own. You know how Belen can be overpowering at times.’ Tenille didn’t, but she let it pass.
‘Anyway, we got together and did the odd benefit in the ‘burbs. He teamed up with a guitarist whose wife is also a dancer. Then came the realization that we were enough to get a show together. Thus Los Flamencos was born. His name is Raoul Losada and the guitarist is Stavros Armenis. He’s Greek actually, but loves all things Spanish and Amaia Garcia is his wife. Raoul is currently looking for a singer, then we’ll have all bases covered.’
Devon had been feasting her eyes on Tenille during all this, not one little detail escaping her notice. Not only did she possess the sultry and intense looks she found so enchanting, but she had an intelligent sparkle to her eye, which bespoke an active brain behind those big, dark eyes of hers. How this woman tripped her trigger.
In fact Tenille had only been half listening, more wrapped up in how Devon was speaking, than in the substance, watching her mouth form the words; enthralled by a fantasy of how those red lips would feel on hers. So much for focused attention.
‘Listen. I’ll give us each a refill and we can go check out my closet and find you some dance clothes.’ She jumped up and Tenille heard that evocative sound of wine leaving the neck of the bottle. ‘Follow me.’ she commanded.
Moving in Devon’s wake into the bedroom, she saw that unlike the other room it was sparsely furnished, basically a bed and a bedside table; the closet a walk-in, with built-in dressing table and mirror at the far end. Her pulse quickened as they moved together and stood, side by side, inspecting the garments on the rack. Devon was right. She had a hell of a lot. Pulling hanger after hanger off the rail, Devon continued until her arms were full, then flung them onto the bed saying: ‘There, sort through that lot,’ then dumped herself on the floor, glass in hand, content to watch Tenille make her selections.
She held the first skirt up against her and looked in the sliding mirrors of the closet doors.
‘That’s no good,’ Devon commented. ‘Try it on properly.’
She didn’t want to undress in front of her, feeling too self-conscious; too on show before a stranger’s eyes. But there was no way out. She stripped down to her lingerie. Fortunately she’d chosen lacy, black briefs. They looked pretty, but were rather high cut. She hoped they didn’t show pub
ic hair, but she dared not look down to check and call attention to herself.
Devon could feel the insistence of her arousal as Tenille began to peel off the layers and her teeth clenched. The legs were long and tanned; very shapely. Her eyes took in the curve of cheek revealed by the skimpy panties. The bottom was athletically round and full; the stomach firm and flat. She wanted to see more.
‘Look, put this top on. You can’t get an idea with that shirt. It’s totally wrong for flamenco.’ She selected a silver lame fabric. It was tight on her, so she knew that on Tenille it wouldn’t do much for a cover up. She smiled to herself as she handed it over.
Tenille had to strip down to her bra, so contrived to turn her back to Devon, as she removed the shell and unbuttoned her shirt. Devon perched herself on the bed, next to the clothing; this way she could make her own choice.
Tenille was horrified when she pulled the top over her bosom. It felt like she’d poured herself into a second skin, her breasts spilling over the top and out the sides. Startled, she turned to Devon saying: ‘I think this is too small for me, do you have something else?’ Devon noticed her face was delectably flushed as she made the request.
‘Sorry ’bout that. The tops are all my size. Not to worry,’ she continued casually: ‘It’s only for the general effect, you don’t have to dance as well.’ A deep chuckle erupted from her throat and split her mouth into a broad grin. Tenille didn’t feel like laughing. She loved being with Devon, but right now felt too uncomfortable. Well, best get it over and done, she was only trying to help her. She picked up the same skirt and dropped it down to the floor to make a delicate entry. If she turned her back then her bottom was facing Devon; if she stayed as she was, toward the bed, her breasts would be on full show. Compromise, side on. She needn’t have bothered working out a strategy, Devon made sure she saw everything. The session continued, checking the effect in the mirror, asking Devon for her opinion; Devon keeping her trying on skirt after skirt.
Outing of the Heart Page 6
